At first it stung – not the acid paper-cut of a wasp sting, or even the sharp, swelling stab of a hornet's - a scorpion's buried deep - simmering - burning within some cavernous abyss so dark and hidden within himself that he thought it would never fade. 

He had expected so much more from Blaine.  Yes, Finn had been Kurt's brother, but Finn had been a New Direction, Finn had led them once Mr. Schue had left, Finn had been a friend, and Blaine had been family too.  Almost as much as Finn had – perhaps in a different way, but still family.  He was supposed to be Kurt's friend – even on the basest level. 

Blaine had sent a card and a beautiful bouquet of white lilies for Carole – so he had known.  He had known and he had not even tried to call.  He had not gone to the funeral and Kurt was not even sure anymore whether he actually appreciated that.

When Kurt had discovered the reason Blaine had not been answering his text messages he had been a little comforted because that meant that Blaine had not been ignoring him.  But then Blaine had not responded to the text Kurt had sent to his new number.  He had not even called!  He had been there for Sebastian of all people – he had saved his life – but he could not spend a minute to even text Kurt, after everything?  It was not like Kurt's number had changed…  So, Kurt had been only marginally surprised that he had felt relief when he realised that Blaine would not be at the funeral.  Perhaps this was the final nail on the coffin – both metaphorically, and literally.  Perhaps this really was the “goodbye” they promised they would never say; this line drawn on the sand, etched in fire to glassy permanence.  Maybe now Kurt could finally move on.

The weeks since had passed in a strange haze – tiptoeing around Rachel, helping his family separate out Finn's belongings into boxes (as if someone's life could be condensed into “Keep”, “Give Away”, and “Donate” - as if it were that easy), helping each of his friends to grieve.  Santana had been hit a lot harder than she let on, and Kurt had felt so helpless.  But he had been there and he had noticed.  He had made sure of that. 

He had vowed to himself that he would never feel like that again; not after his mother, not after standing by his father's hospital bed, not after his father's illnesses…  But he had. 

            Is it unavoidable?  Does it always hurt this badly when they leave?  Does it ever stop?

His OCD was getting worse – he knew it, deep-down – but everyone was so wrapped up in their own coping mechanisms no one noticed.  He found now that he needed to colour-coordinate everything, and that things that had never bothered him before – like the way the dishes were stacked in the cupboards, for example – now held a strange form of meaning.  Crooked lines, disorder, chaos – he could control these things, these tangible things – he could enforce straight lines, order…  He could create the antonym because these were things he could control.  If he could control nothing else in his life, at least he could control this.

The worst part was the loneliness – he felt it clawing at him from the inside, from the deep, never-healing scar that Blaine had left him with, like an infection.  By helping his friends he felt a little like he was honouring Finn.  But none of them seemed to notice that he needed help too, so he threw himself even further into his work for Isabelle, at the Spotlight Diner, and his classes at NYADA.  He overcompensated in the loft – ensuring that the only films they watched together held no mention of love or relationships, because what good had ever come from love anyway?  They always leave you in the end.

-+-

            The celebratory high had lifted him up – everything in his life had been utterly perfect for the first time.  He had three amazing friends who were completely supportive of him, a wonderful boyfriend, and success.  He was soaring so high he feared he might actually burst, so when Cooper blew the wind from his sails and pulled the ground away from under him in one sentence, Blaine fell harder than ever before.

            ‘You thought I'd be alright with this?  You thought I'd be happy that my little brother was shacking up with a man over twice his age?  You think our parents are going to be alright with this, Blaine?  What on Earth were you thinking?  They were barely alright with Kurt and at least you were born in the same decade!  He's older than our father!  You can see how perverted this looks, right?'

            ‘He loves me for me.  He sees me for exactly who I am, Coop!'

            ‘And who is that, Blaine?  Who are you?'

            ‘I'm your brother!  Why can't you see that I'm happy?  Why can't you support me?'

            ‘Yeah.  Right.  Support your relationship with a man who ran away from his own family!  And what happened with Kurt then Blaine?  Wasn't he the “great love” of your life?  You said he was your soul mate?  What happened there, huh?  You're just a kid – you don't know what you feel.'

            ‘I know exactly how I feel!'

            ‘No you don't.  We all had to put up with you moping over Kurt after you cheated on him, and now we're supposed to be happy that you've decided to move in with a man you hardly know, who is ol-‘

            ‘This is not about age, Cooper!'

            ‘Let me talk to him – I want to hear from him how he justifies having a sexual relationship with a teenager.'

            ‘So you can accuse him of being a pervert and corrupting me?  No.  I'm done, Cooper.  If you can't support me – fine!'

            ‘If you were certain this was right, Blaine, you would have told our parents months ago.  You would have told me.  You told me about Kurt from the day you met him.  You've been with this man for months and you tell your family about him a couple of weeks before you move in with him!  Tell me that doesn't look fucked up to you!'

            ‘I didn't tell you because I wanted to be sure!  I know how it looks to the outside world!  I'm not stupid!  I just thought you'd be happy for me.  I guess I was wrong.'

            ‘You don't get it, Blaine.  I love you – you're my little brother – I'll always love you, but it's my job to protect you.  It's my job to stop you destroying your life.  You're fucking some older man who's going to provide for you like you're his mistress.  Like some pet project.  Can't you see what you're giving up?  What about your dreams, huh?   Look, I get it.  I really do.  It's comfortable.  You're not going to want for anything else in your life.  I can see the appeal.  But you're settling!  You're settling for comfort and luxury.  You were going to be a star!  What changed?'

            ‘No – I was going to be a nobody.  You know, better than anyone, how hard it is to actually make a break!  I'll tell you what changed – I grew up.  I can still sing.  I can still perform.  You know that.  This way I will have a career where I can actually make a difference to people's lives.'

            ‘Whilst being bankrolled by your sugar daddy, right?'

            ‘I'm not putting up with this.  Bye, Cooper.'

            ‘I'm going to call them.'

            ‘What?  You're telling on me!  How old are you, ten?!'

            ‘One day you'll understand.'

            ‘What?  That you're condescending?  This is my life!'

            ‘And I'm saving it.'

            ‘You.  Are.  Ruining.  Everything!'

            ‘Blaine –‘

            ‘I'm done, Cooper.  You do this and I'll never speak to you again.'

            ‘Blaine!'

-+-

            When he finally breaks he does not know whether it is from exhaustion or from Rachel's admission.  Either way, he had no idea one throw-away comment could have such an effect on him.  They were sat together on the couch - Santana and Dani were out somewhere on a date (though they had not explicitly labelled it as such), and Kurt was absently going through songs on his iPod, writing down ones he thought would be perfect for their band, Pamela Lansbury, whilst keeping one eye on Rachel who was pretending to watch a documentary on Bette Midler.  He clacked his tongue stud, now almost fully healed, against his teeth as he worked – the product of a drunken moment of insanity fuelled by grief and Rachel.  The brunette had convinced him to get a tattoo with her because she felt that they were in a rut and Kurt had agreed predominantly because he figured that Rachel wanting to do something a little wilder than sitting on the couch with ice-cream was progress.  Rachel had apparently chickened out though and so Kurt had been left with a misspelt tattoo and the mother of all hangovers.  He had managed to get the tattoo corrected from “It's gets better” to “It's got Bette Midler” and so the irony of Rachel's television choice was not something that was lost on him, however, he had not expected to come back with a piercing as well - but that was another story.  He clicked the stud against his teeth again just as he thought he heard Rachel say something.

            ‘Hm?'  He turned slightly to face his friend and cocked his head a little to the side pulling one headphone ear bud out to better hear.  

            ‘The Warblers won Nationals.'

            ‘Oh – uh, that's great.  I'm glad for them.'  He frowns a little at the involuntary hissing he makes on the “s” sounds and the slight lisp on the “th”s – Rachel insists that no one can hear them, but he still can.  He thinks he will wait until Santana stops taking the piss before he believes he has successfully mastered talking with the stud in.

            ‘Yeah.  I saw their performance on YouTube.  They were really good.'

Kurt does not miss the unspoken “Blaine was really good”.  He frowns slightly – still frustrated that his thoughts automatically drift in that particularly painful direction and is about to replace his headphone when he catches –

            ‘He called.  I forgot to tell you.'

            ‘Who called?'  His heart hammers, but it should not.  He knows it should not.

            ‘Blaine.  Just after you fell asleep after your dad called about…  After your dad called.  You were asleep.'

            ‘Oh.'

            ‘Sorry.'

            ‘No – it's… uh… fine.'

His head is swimming with information and he thinks he feels a little sick because if Blaine had called he had been wrong, so wrong.  He feels frozen and utterly lost – fractured to the core and terrified of the what ifs dancing around his head like pink elephants. 

            What if he does still care?  What if he thought I wanted space?  What if I was supposed to call him back but I didn't get the message?  What if sending the card and the flowers was his way of letting me know he knew.  What if he was waiting for me to let him know it would be OK to come to the funeral!  What if it is my fault he couldn't go to the funeral!  What if…

Rachel is staring at him with a peculiar expression on her face and suddenly he cannot take it.  He needs to think - he needs to get out of the loft.  He needs some time to himself, some space, some air.

He pulls out the other ear bud and, abandoning his still playing iPod on the sofa, grabs his cell and heads out, not trusting his voice to say anything to Rachel because it is not her fault.  He does not want her to feel bad.

            It's not her fault.    

It takes him an hour of tear-filled pacing to summon up the nerve to call.  He does not have a clue what he wants to say but he knows he needs the truth.  He needs the truth to breathe.  He needs his friend, his best friend to chase away the darkness with his smile, to warm him with his passion and enthusiasm.  He needs Blaine.

Ring

He needs Blaine to call him out when he is being judgemental.

Ring

He needs Blaine to make him laugh.

Ring

He needs to hear Blaine's laugh.

Ring

He needs Blaine to distract him.

Ring

He needs his best friend.

            ‘Hello?'

The voice sounds tired and it is not Blaine – he must have dialled Blaine's home number by mistake.

            ‘Mrs. Anderson.  Hi.  It's Kurt.  I was wondering if I could talk to Blaine?'

            ‘He doesn't live here.'

The dial tone reverberates around his head, drilling into his skull, and Kurt finds himself bent double vomiting on the sidewalk.  His hands are shaking uncontrollably and his vision blurs but he manages to dial Blaine's mobile number successfully.

            ‘The person you have called is unavailable, please –‘

            Please let him be alright.

            ‘The person you have called is unav –‘

            Please let him be alright.

            ‘The person you have ca–‘

            Please let him be alright.